


Hurt

by flootzavut



Series: Next Time Deuterocanon [2]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e17 Sometimes You Hear the Bullet, M/M, Significant Character Death, Smutcember, nexttimeverse, queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 09:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17159804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: "Hawk waits, and waits, hoping something will break or change to make him feel right again, but nothing does, nothing changes, nothing gets better."





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onekisstotakewithme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/gifts), [absinthe118](https://archiveofourown.org/users/absinthe118/gifts).



> I can't figure out if this should be M or E...
> 
> This is part of the wider Next Time 'verse, but you don't need to read anything else in it for it to make sense. (If you want more Tommy content, hit me up and I'll tell you which other parts to read ;))
> 
> Posting angst on Christmas Day... sorry? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

* * *

**_Hurt_ **

* * *

 

Hawk waits, and waits, hoping something will break or change to make him feel right again (or that he'll wake up and discover this was all a horrible dream, and Tommy's back home in Maine, wearing dresses and boasting how he dodged the draft in a pair of nylons), but nothing does, nothing changes, nothing gets better. Hours pass and all he can think about is that his best friend is gone, his Tommy is gone, he'll never see Tommy again, and it's his fault because Tommy died on his operating table.

He can tell himself that Tommy was just too badly hurt, or that the folks at Battalion Aid should've done a better job stabilising him, or that sometimes, people die and it's not fair or reasonable, and it's the way things are. He tries to hold on to what Henry said: it's war, and young men die, and doctors can't change that. But in his heart, he can't get over the certainty that it's his fault, that if Tommy had been on Trapper's table or Henry's, then it might have been different.

It would even be better if Frank hadn't been in traction and Tommy had gone to him. At least then Hawk would have someone to blame, someone to point at and say, 'It was you, you killed my best friend.'

As it is, the only person he has to blame is himself.

So he waits as long as he can, but when it's dark, and the camp is quiet, and it's just him and Trapper in the Swamp, he finally admits to himself that he isn't okay, that he's not sure he's ever gonna be okay, that it's very possible he isn't gonna get out of Korea with what remains of his sanity intact. He hasn't even been here half a year, and he's already broken. If someone else he knows, someone else he _loves_ , ends up on his table...

For once they have privacy, and Hawk can't think about Tommy anymore, and that's why he sneaks across the tent and tugs on Trap's blanket.

It's always a little risky. Trapper has a lopsided sense of shame when it comes to having sex with men. It doesn't make him queer, it isn't something he does, except that sometimes he is queer and frequently he does have sex with men, or at least he has sex with Hawkeye, whether he has sex with any other men or not. (Hawk doesn't ask and Trap doesn't tell.) Sometimes Trap welcomes him with open arms, sometimes Trap tells him to piss off, and once or twice Hawk felt lucky he got away without a black eye or a broken nose.

"Trap?"

Trap grunts and shrugs his shoulder.

"Trapper!"

"Hawkeye?"

Trap sounds neither angry nor welcoming, just confused, so Hawk tugs at the blanket again, slips underneath it, and presses up against Trap's back.

"Hawk." Trap turns over, and in the darkness Hawk can't make out his expression at all.

"My friend died, Trap," Hawk whispers. It's the best explanation he's got.

Trap sighs, but he puts a hand on Hawk's waist, firm and warm. "You okay, Hawkeye?"

Hawk shakes his head. "I need..."

Trap waits.

"It hurts, Trap. Tommy's dead, and it hurts."

"I know, buddy. I know."

"I don't want it to hurt, Trap."

Hawk doesn't have any other explanation, he just has to hope Trap gets it. He ducks his head in, finds Trap's lips with his own, kisses him like a question. Trap answers with a sigh, but his mouth is soft and sympathetic. Hawk could cry from sheer relief. Trap pulls Hawk closer, slips his hand up under Hawk's shirt, palm warm on his back, and Trap's hard, and Hawk's never been so grateful for it.

God, it's so good to feel, to feel something other than grief. Tommy's face floats through Hawk's mind, but he dives deeper into Trapper, digs his fingers into Trap's hips to drag their bodies closer, to grind their cocks together, and he can't think, his mind going blissfully blank in the heat and need of it, nothing left in his head but a sharp awareness of the knot of tension in the pit of his stomach.

"Easy, Hawk, easy," Trap murmurs into his mouth, "it's okay, Hawkeye," like he's calming a skittish horse, and he strokes Hawk's hair, tugs gently, and Hawk falls to pieces. The wonderful nothingness in his mind goes on and on, then he groans when the world starts coming back and he remembers where he is and why.

Trap's still stroking his hair, petting him like a favourite dog, and Hawk has tears running freely down his face, but Trap doesn't mention them and Hawk is (mostly) glad of that. They lie there in silence for a few minutes, foreheads pressed together. Trap's still hard against Hawk's thigh, but when Hawk trails his hand down Trap's belly, Trap edges away; not a lot, just a little. Sometimes it's like that, and Hawk knows when not to push, knows that Trap can take care of himself.

"Thank you," Hawk murmurs eventually.

"For what?" Trap says, in a voice that's half-joke and half-warning.

Hawk chuckles and leans forward to plant a kiss on the end of Trap's nose. "Thanks."

"Get outta here, ya cheeky fuck," Trap says, but he's laughing; his hand on Hawk's chest is playful, not angry.

Hawk slips out from under the blanket, and gets a couple of steps toward his bed, but then turns on his heel and goes back.

"What?" Trap asks warily.

Hawk squeezes Trap's shoulder, then bends down to kiss his cheek, lets it linger, soft and affectionate. "Thank you, John Xavier McIntyre."

Trap doesn't respond, possibly too surprised to speak, and somehow, leaving him speechless makes Hawk feel a bit better about the whole thing. He slopes back to his own cot and wraps himself up as cosily as he's able. It's the night for a little fantasy, a little escapism, so he goes to sleep with the creek of Trap's cot and Trap's soft noises of pleasure in his ears and the memory of Trap's cock in his mouth, and he almost manages not to think about Tommy at all.

_~ fin ~_


End file.
